Reparation
by rambaldichick
Summary: Sydney's reaction to the events of Resurection. Sarkney


Title: Reparation Author: Amyl27 Rating: R/NC17 Ship: Sarkney Distribution: Sure. Just let me know.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias or anything related. I like to  
think that I do own Sark but my friends and family insist I do  
not.  
Summary: Set directly following season 3 cliffhanger. Lets  
take a look at Sydney's reaction, shall we?  
  
Author's note: So this is what happens when I have a fight with  
my boyfriend who, by the way, is living it up in a tropical  
paradise for the next month while I remain in freakin Boston.  
Nope, not bitter at all. I tired to pour my feelings into a new  
chapter of Parallels last night but was slammed with a major  
case of writer's block. So, instead of writing a bad chapter, I  
give you this.  
  
Sydney's disbelieving eyes scanned over the opaque pages.  
  
This cannot be happening.  
  
She couldn't stop the river of hot tears that immediately sprung to her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Please, God. No, no, no, no.  
  
Suddenly, a familiar voice from behind filled the room.  
  
"Sydney, you were never supposed to have found this," her father said in the cold, clipped tone he adopted whenever he was doubted – or threatened.  
  
She turned, glasses slightly fogged by grief, and stared at the man she had come to know and trust with tear-filled eyes. She was consumed by an equal measure of grief and rage and she wasn't sure which emotion would win out.  
  
She looked back at the pages, briefly, and then turned back to him. "How could you," she asked bitterly and Jack couldn't deny the accusation in her tone.  
  
She knew.  
  
"Sydney, you need to know," he began but she stood, abruptly, and interrupted. His stomach threatened to betray him as she stood and her body language told him that she was now looking at a stranger.  
  
She lifted her hand and pointed at him. "Don't," she spit. "Do not rationalize this by giving one of your manipulating, persuasive speeches, dad. I'm through with you."  
  
Jack remained silent.  
  
She turned to gather the papers and then seemed to think twice as she turned back to him, rage and hatred still filling every readable emotion on her face.  
  
"Who else," she asked.  
  
His chin lifted, on slightly but Sydney recognized the action, it was one of the few qualities she inherited from the man she used to call her father. But still, he remained silent.  
  
"I said, who else knows," she demanded.  
  
Jack stepped towards her, cautiously, and raised his hand as though to place it on her shoulder, a gesture of paternal devotion. Sydney visibly recoiled at his proximity, backing away in horror. The disgust on her face, affecting him more than he would ever let on. And the small action told him that he just might have lost her for good this time.  
  
"Don't," she snapped, but her voice was unsteady and shaky from a breakdown she was struggling to conceal. "Don't touch me," she seethed. "Don't you ever touch me again."  
  
Though the expression on his face revealed nothing, he was suddenly overwhelmed with a barrage of memories flashing through his mind. This first Christmas they had spent together after Laura died; her high school graduation that he viewed from behind a tree; the night that changed both of their lives – when she found out who he truly was; the first hug they shared in a darkened warehouse. She was emotionally broken from her mother's apparent betrayal and grieved the doubt she had in her father. Though they embraced under false pretenses, it had meant the world to him. He remembered the first time she told him that she loved him, as an adult and though he knew he wasn't worthy of her love, he cherished it. He remembered a cloudy day, when he watched his daughter's ashes being scattered by a devastated man and the first time he saw her again behind the glass cage of solitary confinement. She had moved heaven and earth to set him free.  
  
Looking at her now, he knew that he would have no new memories to add to the old ones, for she would never trust him again. Once again, he had betrayed her, but this time, he knew that she would not be able to find forgiveness. And for the second time in three years, he silently mourned the loss of his daughter.  
  
"Tell me." Her voice was low, almost threatening. "Who else knows?" She paused, here, looked down at her feet and breathed in deep, willing courage to find her. "Mom?" She asked, her voice finally cracking.  
  
Jack nodded, solemnly.  
  
Her lower lip quivered, her chin fought a losing battle of emotion and her eyes once again filled with tears.  
  
"And Sloane," she said, but it was more of a statement than a question. It was quite obvious that Sloane had to be a part of this, if nothing more he had to have knowledge of it.  
  
Jack knew he didn't have to answer her so he didn't nod, but his silence spoke volumes.  
  
Sydney shook her head in repulsion and turned away from him, facing the wall. Jack could tell, even from behind, that she was shaking. She crossed her arms across her chest and took measured breaths.  
  
"Who else?"  
  
Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly before answering her.  
  
"Dixon," he replied. The simple answer made her turn back around, a look of absolute horror on her face.  
  
"Who else?" she asked and it was obvious that she was beginning to lose the battle with her emotions as her trembling increased. He wanted nothing more than to go to her but knew it was not a good idea – he would only push her further away.  
  
Her eyebrows were knitted tightly together as she subconsciously reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears before she realized that she still wore a wig. She took a deep breath , lifted her chin, in the same manner he had just moments before, and looked him directly in the eye when she asked the question she feared the most.  
  
"Vaughn?"  
  
She was a pathetic sight. After everything that had happened in her life, after all the pain and betrayal, Jack couldn't remember a time when she had ever looked so lost. He wanted to lie, to tell her that Vaughn had no knowledge of the cover up, that he was just as innocent as she was – not for Vaughn's sake, but he wanted to spare her a small amount of pain. But now that it was out, he knew that she deserved the truth, would find out anyway, no matter how badly it hurt her. And for the first time, Jack felt his courage waver. He looked at the floor, unable to give her the answer that would destroy her. But once again, his silence spoke volumes and she knew the answer.  
  
"Oh, God," she whispered as she brought her hand to her mouth and finally released the ocean of tears that came from the depths of her soul.  
  
Jack made to move towards her again, but she backed away until she was pressed up against the wall.  
  
She looked at him with such pain in her eyes, that Jack felt a lump form in his throat. "You monster," she cried desperately and Jack thought that he actually heard her heart breaking. "How could you do this to me?"  
  
"Sydney," he began but she raised her hands over he ears, blocking out the sound of his voice. She was shaking her head back and forth so violently that Jack feared that she was on the cusp of a nervous breakdown.  
  
The pathetic sight of his daughter was too much for him to handle. In three, long strides he was in front of her. His strong hands grabbed her wrists, forcefully, bringing them down to her sides. She continued to shake her head.  
  
"Sydney, you need to understand something," he said but at the sound of his voice she wrenched her hands out of his grasp and pushed him away from her with surprising force.  
  
"I hate you," she spat. "All of you."  
  
She brushed past him, making her way back over to the table where the documents laid dormant. She picked them up and shoved them in her messenger bag. She threw the single key to the box onto the table thoughtlessly and walked towards the door.  
  
She paused at the door, and turned back towards her father. He was a stranger. Nothing had ever hit her so hard. Not even the truth of her mother's identity and subsequent betrayal.  
  
"I never want anything to do with you again," she said and Jack could hear the thinly veiled threat in her voice. If the circumstances had been different and had she been addressing someone else, he would have been proud of her. She was so strong, had come so far. "If you ever come near me again, I will kill you."  
  
She turned and opened the door. She paused and turned around again. "We've been through a lot, overcome a lot. But, know this, I will never trust you again. Any of you." And with that, she turned, one last time and exited the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
Jack remained silent in the middle of the room. He had lost her for good. And with that thought, a single tear slid down his cheek.  
  
She arrived at work two days later, earlier than usual. She needed time to process things so she was planning on requesting a leave of absence.  
  
She placed her bag on her desk and made her way to Dixon's office. She arrived early in a conscious effort to avoid her father and Vaughn. Dixon, unfortunately, was unavoidable. She walked towards his office, ignoring people bustling about. It was unusually busy for this time of morning.  
  
"Hey, Bristow," she heard from behind her and she cringed. The last thing she needed was a friendly chat but she plastered a fake smile on her face.  
  
Weiss, strolled up to her, a warm smile on his face but she could tell but the wrinkle in his brow that something was up – it was one of his tell's.  
  
"Hey, Eric, what's up?"  
  
"You didn't hear," he asked, slightly out of breath. After a particularly tough breakup, he had gained back a considerable amount of weight but was struggling to take it off again.  
  
"Hear what?" She asked, as he pulled her by the shoulder to a quiet corner.  
  
His voice was conspiritually low as he whispered. "Sark escaped custody last night."  
  
Sydney's mouth hung open. That slimy son of a bitch always seemed to pull a Houdini act at the worst possible moment. "What? How?"  
  
"DOJ demanded that Sark be sent to Camp Harris for immediate interrogation. I guess they weren't willing to waste two more years of tax payers money on him," he said and despite herself, Sydney smiled. "The transfer was ambushed last night en route. Someone tipped them off. Anderson's in the hospital with a bullet to the knee."  
  
Sydney rolled her eyes. "Well, Lauren's out of the picture. Are we thinking there's another mole?"  
  
"Possibly," he said. "Personally, I wish someone would just put a bullet in his head. He's more trouble than what he's worth."  
  
Sydney nodded in agreement.  
  
"Anyway, so why you in so early? Looking to get some one on one time with Vaughn," he teased but Sydney just looked down at her feet.  
  
"No, I just need to talk to Dixon."  
  
Just then Weiss' cell phone rang. "So, lunch this week, right?" He asked before he answered.  
  
Sydney smiled. "Sure."  
  
Sydney knocked quietly before she entered Dixon's office. He was sitting behind his desk, sipping coffee. "Sydney, come in."  
  
"Thank you," she said, and though she remained professional, the coolness of her tone was unmistakable.  
  
She walked to the leather chair in front of his desk and was about to sit when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Looking up, she found her father sitting on the couch. In all honesty, he looked terrible but Sydney looked away quickly and turned her attention back to Dixon.  
  
"Sydney, I understand," Dixon began but Sydney interrupted him with a quick wave of the hand.  
  
"I didn't come in here to discuss it," she said, sharply. "I came to request some time off."  
  
"Sydney," he started again but she was determined.  
  
"I have a lifetime of vacation coming to me and I'd like to take it. If you're unable to grant my request then you'll have to accept my resignation, effective immediately."  
  
Dixon looked down at the desk and sighed. They had been through a lot together, been partners in another life and he loved her.  
  
"As the director, I ask you to reconsider your timing, with Sark having escaped custody we could use you. But as your friend, I would tell you that you can take all the time you need."  
  
Sydney wanted to laugh at the word 'friend.' But she remained professional. "I'm requesting three weeks," she said, firmly.  
  
Dixon looked over at Jack and she wanted to scream but before she could react he nodded.  
  
"Thank you," she said, simply and turned and walked out of the room, not sparing a glance at her father.  
  
Sydney sipped her cappuccino slowly, her book laying at her side. Sitting on the outside terrace of a beautiful, Italian bistro, she spent tonight – like so many other nights during the last two weeks – people watching. It was a scene she had frequented often after Danny had died. Looking around her now, she felt a wave of envy wash over her as she watched families eating, friends laughing and couples holding hands. She had none of that.  
  
She paid the bill, left a generous tip and headed for the parking garage where her truck was. It was a distance from the restaurant, but Sydney enjoyed the beautiful night. It was cool and the air held a nip. She wore a simple black skirt and black pumps, which wrapped seductively around her ankle. Her top was also black, conservative, but dipped generously into a low V-neck. She wrapped her gray, cashmere sweater around her shoulders as the wind picked up.  
  
She hopped in her truck, noticing a light coat of fog forming on the windshield. She started the ignition, flipped on the defrosters and began to wipe away the condescension when she heard the distinct fully familiar click of a gun being cocked, behind her. Soon after, she felt the cool tip of metal pressed against the back of her head.  
  
She froze more in surprise than fear. I can't believe I didn't check the back seat. She sat, rigid, until she heard a nauseatingly smooth, accented voice float out from the dark havens of her back seat.  
  
Fuck.  
  
"I must admit, Agent Bristow, you've always had atrocious taste in automobiles," he mocked. "I've always pictured you in something much sleeker and more refined."  
  
Sydney grabbed the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white and resisted the urge to bang her head against the dashboard.  
  
"What the Hell do you want, Sark," she snapped, impatiently.  
  
"No witty comebacks? I'm disappointed," he teased, and the playfulness in his voice made her want to gut him like a fish.  
  
"I honestly don't have the energy right now to engage in a verbal spar with you. So, either tell me what you want, or shoot me. I don't really care which."  
  
Sark sighed in feigned disappointment. The game was never as fun when the opponent refused to play along. So he decided to bait her a little more.  
  
"No doubt, dinning alone with all your pathetic self pity must be exhausting."  
  
Sydney snapped her head around as best she could while still keeping her hands on the steering wheel. "If you came to kill me, Sark, then just do it. I don't care. But don't make me listen to all your self-righteous bullshit. I'm not in the mood." She was only half kidding, but she truly wasn't in the mood to spar with him tonight – verbal or otherwise.  
  
When he pressed the cold steel against her neck a little rougher, he reminded her again just who was in control. The move also reminded her that if he had wanted her dead, she would be. Which begged the question. What did he want?  
  
"Do not push me, Agent Bristow," he warned.  
  
She turned back around and remained silent as she watched the fog slowly clear up.  
  
"Throw your purse back here," he instructed and she immediately complied. Once he had her bag, he stood up and leaned over the seat. She jumped when she felt his hand skim her sides and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, so much so that she was tempted to burn her eyes out with the cigarette lighter when she noticed how delicious he smelled.  
  
"Relax, Agent Bristow," he cooed in her ear. "I'm just checking for weapons."  
  
Once he was satisfied that she was unarmed, he sat back in his seat.  
  
"Drive," he instructed.  
  
"Where?" She asked, as she put the truck and gear and began to drive out of the garage.  
  
"Your place," he said and although she couldn't see him, she could hear that infuriating, smug, little smirk of his in his voice. She slammed on the brakes and threw the car in 'park.'  
  
"No way," she said, defiantly.  
  
She heard him sigh and was happy to hear a hint of agitation in his voice and was absolutely ecstatic that she was the one who put it there.  
  
"Relax, Agent Bristow. I'm not looking for anything more than a little information. And I'm fully aware of where you live so you're not giving up some great mystery," he said, sarcastically.  
  
She didn't budge so he continued. "I can give you directions, if you like."  
  
She turned around slowly, and looked at him with such loathing in her eyes he had to hold back a smile. He loved getting a rise out of her. And the timing was especially sweet, especially after her little stunt in his cell a few weeks back.  
  
"I am not taking you to my home, you son of a bitch" she whispered, as if there were other people around and she didn't want them to hear their conversation.  
  
He smiled and bit his bottom lip in deep thought. "Fine," he said, nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I'll just knock you unconscious, leave you here in the garage, and go and have a little visit with your friendly neighbor, Mr. Weiss. Though, I must admit that I don't hold the same soft spot for him as I do for you, so I cannot guarantee a safe outcome to the visit." He smiled, a self-satisfied smile, and waited patiently for a reaction. Sydney, in turn, glared at him.  
  
Suddenly, an old saying ran through Sark's mind. If looks could kill. It was appropriate for the look she shot him could have burned him down where he sat. finally, she turned around and slammed the car in 'drive."  
  
Fucking asshole, she thought as she pushed down on the accelerator.  
  
The first ten minutes of the ride was spent in relative silence. Sydney kept her hands on the steering wheel, eyes locked on the road. Sark kept his hand on his gun and his eyes locked on Sydney.  
  
Finally, just as Sark expected, Sydney's curiosity won out and she couldn't help but ask the question she had been dying to ask since Sark first pressed the gun to her skull.  
  
"So, just what information do you think I have to give you?"  
  
Sark smiled to himself. He knew she would ask. He actually had no qualms in telling her but he just didn't relish the change in her demeanor that was inevitable once he told her.  
  
"Why don't we wait until we reach the safety of your home before we address such matters."  
  
Sydney rolled her eyes and offered nothing more than a childish, "Whatever."  
  
Sark smiled again – she was so fun to play with.  
  
To Sark's somewhat pleasant surprise, they arrived at her house – and were now standing, awkwardly, in the middle of her living room – without incident. He kept his gun trained on her as they walked through the door. She flipped her sweater off her shoulders, the action encouraging an appreciative glance from Sark. He did not try to hide the way his eyes slid over her body. Her body tensed at his inspection, and she crossed her arms across her chest defensively. She glared at him, in a way that only Sydney could.  
  
She huffed and placed her hands on her hips like an annoyed mother. "Are you planning on telling me what this is about or do I have to make you dinner too?"  
  
Gun still aimed on her forehead, he winked at her with all the condescension he could muster and began casually walking around her living room, taking inventory of her private belongings and invading her personal space. A million thoughts ran through her mind – especially how she could manage to get to the kitchen to get the gun she kept hidden behind the spice rack. But mostly she was thinking, despite a great effort not to, how unbelievably sexy he looked. He was an insanely gorgeous man, but he was also evil in its purest form. Looking at him now, she realized that the devil didn't wear a red cape and boots, he didn't have horns or a large stake. He wore a black suit, tailored to fit him to perfection; a charcoal gray shirt that he left unbuttoned just enough to tempt. He had meticulously messy blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. He wore expensive, leather shoes and carried a Glock. He looked different than what she had envisioned the devil to look like. But he was still the devil.  
  
"The contents of bank vault, number 1062," he said, the simple, direct words breaking her out of her inspection of his appearance.  
  
"What?" She managed to croak out.  
  
"The contents of the box you recently acquired in Whittenberg," he stated simply. "It appears as thought I arrived late, due to an unexpected, but temporary, incarceration. I would like the documents you recovered from that box."  
  
Sydney stood a little straighter, squared her shoulders and prepared herself for the inevitable battle that was about to take place. "No," she answered, and the tone of her voice left little for interpretation. Sark expected no less from her.  
  
Though her reaction was expected, it didn't stop the onslaught of impatience that flowed through his veins. His eyes narrowed sharply and any trace of good-natured banter left his features immediately. Apparently, you could insult this man to the hilt, call him any name in the book. Hell, you could beat him down and slap handcuffs on him and he would simply smirk and offer a polite, 'thank you.' He apparently, however, did not take well to the word, 'no.'  
  
"I want the contents of that box, Agent Bristow, and I want it now. I know you were the one who accessed the box. I know you have it in your possession."  
  
She remained defiant. Everything in her body language challenged him. But she was still aware of how lethal he could be when pushed so she knew she had to defuse the situation.  
  
"Sorry, Sark, but you're a little late – per usual. The contents of the box are currently being analyzed in a CIA lab, but you're more than welcome to go and ask them."  
  
Sark chuckled a bit and lowered his gun. He looked truly amused, in the most intolerable way possible.  
  
Sydney's posture remained stoic.  
  
He continued to walk around the living room, but his gate suggested that he was pacing. "I know you don't think much of me, Sydney," he began and she rolled her eyes and snorted, the action screaming 'No, dah, asshole.' Sark ignored her and continued.  
  
"I'm a lot of things, Sydney. All the nasty little things you choose to label me might be right. But I'm not stupid, and I don't like it when people imply that I am." He stopped in front of her mantle and picked up a photo of her and Weiss at a carnival a few months back – it was one of the few she hadn't ripped down and thrown in a box.  
  
He stared at the photo in his hands as he continued speaking. "I know the documents in that box reveal vital information about you, the passenger and Rambaldi's prophecy. And though, I don't yet know the specifics, I do know that there also is information that pertains to me." He put the photograph back down on the mantle and turned to her. "I also know that the documents reveal a betrayal of epic proportion by those whom you have blindly trusted for so long. And knowing this, I also know that you would never hand this information over to the CIA – an organization that has orchestrated said betrayal.  
  
She shook her head in disbelief. How could he know all of this?  
  
"Now, I can shoot you and just find the documents myself, which I'm guessing would not be terribly difficult, or you can make both our lives easier and just hand them over to me."  
  
She rolled her eyes and silently weighed his words. She sighed and pointed over to the mahogany desk sitting in the corner. He smiled, boyishly, like a child who was just given permission to open his Christmas presents early, and confidently strolled over to the desk. He looked up at her, eyebrows raised expectantly.  
  
"Second drawer," she said, her tone defeated.  
  
He nodded and opened the drawer. He still kept an eye on her as he rummaged through the papers until he pulled out a file folder that was hidden under a dictionary.  
  
"Excellent. Thank you, Sydney," he said, gallantly, as he walked towards the door.  
  
"Wait," she said, softly.  
  
He turned around and for the briefest of moments, he was unable to hide the curiosity in his eyes. But he recovered quickly.  
  
"You pretty much know everything on those papers, right?" She began.  
  
He nodded, cautiously.  
  
"So you know that..." her words faltered.  
  
Seeing how difficult it was for her to say the words, he quickly interjected. "That all those you love, and who you thought loved you –including your father and your sainted boy scout, have been deceiving you all along? Yes, I know."  
  
Considering the depth of emotion that had been running through her for weeks, it was easy for Sydney to conjure up a few fake tears for the sake of her current goal.  
  
"Well, there's something there that I don't understand, or actually not sure if I'm reading it right" she said meekly.  
  
He titled his head, skeptically.  
  
"The documents are yours, Sark, take them. I was just wondering if you could make sense of something for me," she sniffed.  
  
He regarded her for a moment. "So, you want my help, do you?" He mocked.  
  
Sydney pouted a little before she turned away from him, facing the wall. "Forget I asked," she whispered.  
  
Oh she was good, he thought. He knew she was playing him, she had to be. But Sark had always been a sucker for a beautiful woman. And a beautiful woman asking him for help had always proved irresistible to him.  
  
He dragged a hand through his hair, took a deep breath and walked back into the living room and over to the couch, where he dropped the documents on the coffee table. He kept his Glock in his hand and at the ready. Sydney turned and began walking towards him when he sat down. His eyes motioned for her to sit in the chair, several feet away. He might be a sucker for a weepy, vulnerable Sydney Bristow, but he would be damned if he gave her the advantage of proximity.  
  
He pulled out a pen-like wand, which illuminated the seemingly blank pages to reveal pages of text. "Which part?" He asked.  
  
"Third page in, fourth paragraph down," she paused and gave him a minute to find the page. "The part about my father," she said quietly.  
  
He looked up and was surprised at the momentary feeling of pity he had for the woman. But the moment was fleeting and was soon gone.  
  
Sark's eyes scanned the pages and he had to hide his surprise and confusion. He had been well aware of Jack's involvement but he was shocked to see evidence of how deep his betrayal had run.  
  
After a few minutes of reading, Sark reached up, with his gun hand, and rubbed the back of his neck. "What do you want me to say, Sydney?" He asked, no hint of emotion in his voice, but his eyes held a different story and she might have been imagining it, but she actually thought she saw regret within their blue depths.  
  
"Does it mean what I think it means?" She asked and even though this was just part of her plan, she cursed herself for sounding so weak.  
  
"Yes," he said, simply – the single answer sending a painful blow to her heart. She hated and appreciated his brutal honesty. But then again, everything about Sark was brutal – brutal but honest and she actually respected him for that.  
  
"Son of a Bitch," she yelled, at no one in particular as she stood up. The action actually made Sark flinch a little. Apparently the realization of this latest betrayal made the gun in his hand less threatening to Sydney. She simply didn't care as she walked back and forth, looking ready to kill someone. His grasp on the gun tightened.  
  
She put her hands on her hips and looked down at him. The only thing worse than giving your opponent the advantage of proximity was allowing the advantage of height. He stood quickly.  
  
"I suppose I should say, thank you," she said, sarcastically.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Don't be silly," he began but was cut off by a crushing punch to the face.  
  
Bloody fucking hell.  
  
Admittedly, the punch had caught him off guard and dazed him for a moment. But he recovered quickly enough to deflect the second punch but his gun had been flung under the armoire. He grabbed her fist and twisted it, painfully, and delivered a sever kick to her stomach.  
  
She stumbled back as he advanced on her but, thinking quickly, she picked up the marble chessboard from the coffee table and threw it at him, catching him in the jaw. She turned to deliver a kick but he caught her foot and pushed her to the ground. He stood over her and was about to pounce but she kicked up, aiming for his groin. She grazed him, and he groaned, thigh his though took most of the force.  
  
His pain gave her moment to recover and she got to her feet. He charged at her and delivered another painful punch to the gut that stole the air from her lungs. He pushed her roughly against the wall, trapping her with own body and pinned her arms above her head with his left while his right clutched tightly around her throat. His knee had found its way between her legs – effectively immobilizing her.  
  
She strained for breath, as did he, and when he felt her body relax a bit, he loosened his grip around her neck – but just enough to allow her to swallow.  
  
"Bloody Christ, woman," he breathed as she glared into his eyes. She could see the rage snapping in his own. "When will you learn that you will never beat me, Sydney?" He seethed. He adjusted his arm that held her own above her head and when he winced she realized that it was the same arm that Vaughn had broken only a few weeks before.  
  
"Those documents are mine," she said, breathlessly. "You're girlfriend was the one who told me about them. Apparently even she knew that I had a right to..."  
  
"Oh, give it a rest, Sydney," he said. "We've all had people betray us but apparently you think you have sole ownership on self-pity. When we trust people, they ultimately betray us – it's human nature. But we, in turn, learn a valuable lesson from it. It's just the way it works." He adjusts his body again and she can tell the arm is causing him a lot of pain.  
  
Good.  
  
"But the thing that distinguishes the strong from the weak are those who learn from their mistake and never make it again," he says and she is startled but the truth in his words.  
  
She stared at him in awe. He was right. This vile, disgusting excuse for a human being was absolutely right. She might not like it, it wasn't what she wanted to hear but he was right – and he was being honest with her. It was unnerving.  
  
The moment stole any rational thought left in her brain because before she knew what was happening, before she could stop herself, her mouth was fused together with his in a hungry, desperate kiss. The strangest thing was, was that she was the one who initiated it.  
  
It was immediately the most passionate kiss she had ever experienced. Although she started it, he was quick to take control. His lips were soft and warm but the force behind them was bruising. She felt his knee shift, slightly, between her legs – making her gasp. He seized the opportunity and forced his tongue past her lips and into her mouth where he explored and coaxed until her own dared to meet his.  
  
The hand that grasped her wrists above her head tightened and the one wrapped around her throat somehow found its way behind her neck and hauled her closer to him as he pushed his body against her – making her moan.  
  
The sound that escaped her lips seemed to snap him back to reality as he tore his mouth away from hers, but remained closed enough to feel her breath dance across his cheeks. His breathing was ragged and labored. It was only when he released her arms and his hand made its way down to rest on her hip did she dare to open her eyes.  
  
They both stood still, nose to nose, chests heaving – both of them clearly shaken by what had happened. When he finally spoke, it was low and angry and threatening. But it also was low, and husky and seductive and every syllable sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.  
  
"You're a beautiful woman, Agent Bristow, and I would be lying if I said that the prospect of having you in my bed didn't excite me," he said and as he moved a little closer, Sydney didn't know if it was her imagination or perhaps another gun tucked away, but she felt the distinctive pressure of something hard press against her thigh. It aroused her, but it wasn't enough to distract her from his words.  
  
"But don't, for one minute, think I'm naive enough to allow myself to be manipulated for nothing more than a good lay. I'm better than that," he whispered, and emphasized his point by grabbing her sore wrists a little tighter.  
  
She looked at him standing in front of her – flushed, angry, aroused and she felt a surge of heat pool between her legs. At that very moment, all the emotions that had building over the last three weeks, all the hurt and anger and pain she felt towards her father and mother, Vaughn and Dixon, came rushing back. And though she despised herself for it, she was overcome with a desire to get back at them – to hurt them as much as they hurt her.  
  
"That's not what I'm doing," she said, and looked down. She couldn't stand to be looking in his eyes if he was about to reject her.  
  
Sark regarded her for a moment, allowed his eyes to roam the length of her body and when realization finally dawned on him, he chuckled, humorlessly.  
  
"I see," he purred and leaned forward, placing a short kiss against her swollen lips. His lips hovered over hers but didn't make contact as he whispered, "But I'm not about to whore myself in the name of some pathetic need for revenge."  
  
The dig stung, and stung deep. She was so humiliated. He was actually turning her down. She wrenched her hands free from his grasp and pushed him away.  
  
"Fine," she spat. "Take the papers and leave," she ordered as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and brushed past him. But his reflexes were quick as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back against the wall, hard. He immediately crushed his body against hers as he rested his open palms against the wall on either side of her head.  
  
"I'm not interested in being some catalyst for your retribution, Sydney," he said as he pushed a stray hair out of her eyes. "But I have no qualms about being the object of unrequited desire."  
  
And before she had a chance to register his words, his lips came crashing back against her own in a demanding kiss. His hands went to her hair and pulled her close to him as she rested both of her hands against his chest.  
  
They drank each other in, neither one able to get enough of the other. She poured every emotion she had into his mouth and kissed him with reckless abandonment.  
  
She pulled away a fraction of an inch to whisper, "This is so wrong."  
  
"Horribly wrong," he murmured into her lips as he kissed her again.  
  
His lips quickly found their way to her neck where his tongue left a wet trail down the column of her throat. Her own hands were busy pulling off his suit jacket and discarding it onto the floor and she felt the heat from his body emanating through the fine silk of his shirt.  
  
She was right. This was absolutely wrong. But it felt so fucking good.  
  
One of his hands had somehow managed to find its way up her shirt and was now cupping her covered breast as his other hand trailed down her back and cupped her backside through her skirt. When he pulled her a little closer, she whimpered, causing him to deepen the kiss.  
  
He took a moment to sink his teeth into the sensitive skin on her neck but their mouths soon found their way back to each other again as she reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled his mouth away from hers and watched, curiously, as she peeled the material off his body with meticulous care.  
  
He stood before her, naked, from the waist up and Sydney took the opportunity to explore the hard planes of his chest with her hands and lips. When her hands reached his lower stomach, he pressed his body against hers and ground his hips – wanting her to feel his arousal. She had put him in this state many times before – and each time his body had betrayed him he was forced to hide it for fear of humiliation. Now was his chance to proudly show the affect she had on him.  
  
When she felt the hardness pressed against her thigh, she groaned, which only made him grind harder. But her body seemed to welcome the intrusion as she arched into him.  
  
A brief moment of clarity struck him, and he realized that she was still wearing far too many clothes. He reached for the hem of her shirt and didn't hesitate to pull it up and over her head – revealing an elegant, black bra. He lowered his mouth and kissed her through the thin, mesh material. When her fingers threaded through his blonde locks and pulled him closer, he pushed the material over her breasts, not bothering to remove it completely. He lowered his mouth and ever-so slowly, brought the tip of his tongue to her rosy red nipple. She pulled his hair and moaned his name when he made contact – the sound driving him completely mad.  
  
He continued to cup and suck her breast while his other hand snaked down and unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper. She hadn't even realized that he had pulled himself free until he grabbed her hand and guided it down to his swollen manhood. She gasped when she felt his heated flesh in her palm. Startled, she tried to pull back but he gripped her hand tighter and began guiding her movements over him.  
  
It took her a few moments, but once she had completely taken over her actions and began taking control, he threw his head back in complete ecstasy – enjoying the way she stroked him.  
  
"Fuck," he whispered, harshly, clamping his teeth down into his bottom lips so hard, she thought he might draw blood.  
  
The way in which he was losing himself, the way he surrendered to her made her movements all the more determined. She stroked harder, pulling and tugging at him and she smiled when she felt him subtly thrust into her hand.  
  
Though he encouraged the action, hell he started it, it was soon becoming overwhelming and he feared that he wouldn't last much longer. He somehow found his voice and ground out a command – or plea – to stop.  
  
Sydney, actions driven by an insatiable need to quench the anger and pain within her, only quickened her pace on him.  
  
"Stop," he breathed again, but still she ignored him.  
  
Harder, faster, harder, harder  
  
"Sydney, stop," he cried as he summoned the strength to peel her hand away from him.  
  
His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.  
  
"I thought this is what you wanted," she said, coyly.  
  
"It is," he replied and grabbed her, hauling her up against him. "But not yet," he said and kissed her again, so roughly that their teeth knocked together, painfully.  
  
She kissed back, rubbing her hips against his in a rhythm that pantomimed intercourse. As they kissed, his hands reached behind her and, expertly, unclasped her bra – allowing the lacy garment to drop to the floor at their feet.  
  
He pulled back and in one, swift movement, Sark suddenly had her turned around, facing the wall. She placed her palms against it for leverage as she felt him press his body against her from behind.  
  
He presses her against the wall, dragging his hands down, exploring the length of her body. He works his way down her chest, her legs and bends at the knees to run them down her smooth legs. As he straightens, he brings his hands back up and under her skirt as they find their way to their destination. She moans when she feels his fingers massage her through the thin material of her black panties. She throws her head back against his shoulder when his thumb finds her most sensitive spot.  
  
He smiles when he feels the dampness of the material and catches her ear lobe between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make her hiss in pain. His hands grow more aggressive and his actions become more determined as he strokes her. When she begins to rock her hips, he grinds his hardness into her backside – eliciting a desperate moan from both of them.  
  
He shifts his body, as he boldly positions his knee between her thighs – forcing her to spread her legs further apart. Not only does she concede to his demand, she seems to enjoy it as she whispers, "More."  
  
He nearly loses control at the desperate sound of her voice. Skillfully, he moves his fingers past the elastic of her panties and stokes her, skin to skin.  
  
She whimpers when he enters her with one then two fingers. She removes one hand from the wall and wraps it around his head, pulling him closer, as he continues to thrust into her, his own hips softly grinding into her. Her legs nearly give out when his thumb finds that same delicious spot again.  
  
"That's it, Sydney, let go," he whispers in her ear as he takes tiny bites along her neck. "That's it." She can't help but move her hips in time with his hand.  
  
Even in the current state she is in, she knows how wrong this is. But Sark knows just where to touch her. It had been so long since someone has touched her like this – if ever. He is an expert in everything he does, and his carefully crafted seduction is no exception.  
  
She feels him pressing himself against her, harder, and she can't help but push back. She is pleased to hear him stifle a groan. She smiles, but it melts quickly as Sark brings two fingers from his other hand up to her mouth and pushes them inside. He is invading every part of her, and the sensation is overwhelming. The feeling of him, in her mouth, in her body is making her dizzy and she knows the only thing keeping her on her feet is him – his fingers, his body, his knee. His actions are passionate, filled with a wanton lust she can't describe, but his words remain cruel.  
  
"Does this make it all better, Sydney?" He whispers as he bites down, harshly, on her neck.  
  
She cranes her neck back further, pulls his hair a little harder. Even though his words are cruel, they are honest – and the husky timbre of his voice makes her want him in a way she has never wanted anyone in her life.  
  
"Does it make it better? Do you have your revenge?" He asks as his fingers continue to pump into her. The fingers in her mouth do not allow her the luxury of a reply. She doesn't know what she would say even if she could.  
  
She bites down, hard, on his fingers. She knows it must hurt but he refuses to let it show, not even when she tastes the coppery tang of blood in her mouth.  
  
His retaliation comes when his fingers begin to pump harder into her, and his thumb finds a deliberate rhythm until she cries out his name. He continues to thrust into her as her body sags against him. He finds it particularly curious that she allows her body to melt back into his, instead of finding a safer refuge like the wall.  
  
He removes his hand from under her skirt and wraps both arms around her waist, in a surprisingly kind gesture. She turns her head to the side, just far enough to make eye contact. He leans down and she allows him to kiss her.  
  
Though she knows he has yet to be satisfied, she silently acknowledges that she just experienced the single most intense sexual encounter of her life – with Sark. The only thing that disturbs her more than that was the fact that he wasn't finished with her yet – and that was just fine with her.  
  
He turned her around by the waist to face him, and grabbed her by the hips to pick her up – forcing her to wrap her arms and legs around his body. Though he was completely disheveled, he still remained partially clothed.  
  
He carried her to the bedroom and it frightened her that he didn't have to ask where it was. She dismissed it as intuition.  
  
Their mouths were fused together when he kicked the door closed and walked them over to the bed. There was a small lamp over in the corner of the room but it created more shadows than light.  
  
He released her from his grip and she slid down his body, easily. But their greedy hands maintained contact. He gathered her hair in his hand and brushed it over to one side – exposing a naked column of skin. His mouth ravished her neck and soon trailed over her ear, her throat, her shoulder blades as his hands worked her skirt down her legs. She let it fall to the ground and immediately returned the gesture by pushing his pants down over his hips. He stepped out of them, quickly, as they both took a moment to appreciate their bodies. The only thing that separated them was the thin material of their underwear. They stared at each other, both daring the other to make a move.  
  
Surprisingly, Sydney was the first to grab for the waistband of his silk boxers. She dragged them down his legs and when she smiled, a bit devishly, he kissed her again. He turned their bodies and positioned them in front of the bed as he sat down on the mattress. She shivered as he ran warm hands down her body, which was flushed and heated from arousal.  
  
Cupping her backside, he tugged her closer and leaned in to lay small kisses over her toned stomach. Her head hung back as he left a warm, sticky trail over her abdomen. When his tongue began circling her bellybutton, she briefly registered the feeling of her panties being lowered down her legs. Her hands dove back into his hair and pulled roughly.  
  
He smiled against her skin.  
  
She felt him pulling her body closer and when she finally opened her eyes, he was still sitting on the bed, but she found herself in his lap, straddling his naked body. She could feel the tip of his erection teasing her and she longed to feel all of him.  
  
Instead, she settled on kissing him again – thoroughly, desperately. His tongue was just as sinfully decadent as the other appendage nestled firmly between her legs.  
  
"If anyone finds out about this, I'm going to be joining you in that nice little glass cage they have reserved for you," she murmured between kisses.  
  
"It'll be worth it," he groans and she gasps when she feels him finally penetrate her.  
  
As she sinks down onto him, she closes her eyes and clutches his upper arm, and her nails bite into his skin. She bends her head down and buries her teeth into his shoulder, a lame attempt at stifling a moan.  
  
He reaches up with one hand and lifts her face away from him. "No," he breathes. "I want to hear you, Sydney." He kisses her and reaches his arm behind him for support as he begins to thrust. She clamps her teeth over her bottom lip but it only makes him thrust harder.  
  
She sees him wince, almost painfully, and she notices him favoring the arm. Suddenly, with absolute clarity, she remembers the way he looked that day she tricked him in the cell. He was completely broken. The thought angered her. Not because she thought he didn't deserve it – he did. But it was the way Vaughn always took the moral high road when talking about Sark. And yet, lately Vaughn had shown a darkness to him that she always resented in Sark. But Sark was always honest about who he was. Vaughn was a hypocrite.  
  
In a surprising move, she slows her pace and reaches forward, bringing his arm in front of them. He stops his movements for a moment and watches as she leans forward and places small kisses up and down his battered arm in an impromptu gesture of tenderness.  
  
His movements stop completely as he watches her in awe. She kisses the palm of his hand, and then each of his fingers. She places gentle kisses on his forearm, his inner elbow and places a series of kisses along his shoulder – the area that took the most abuse.  
  
Without warning, he flips them over, so she is lying on her back and he hovers above her. The small gesture she made was more than he could handle. This wasn't supposed to be that. It was supposed to be hard and quick and fast and satisfying. It wasn't supposed to be soft or gentle or tender or kind, but all of a sudden, that is exactly what it turned into.  
  
He thrust into her again, and she yelped in pleasure. He leans forward and kisses her deeply and then rests his head against her forehead, concentrating on the feeling of being wrapped in her tight warmth.  
  
"God, Sark," she whimpers, as he brings his thumb down to her swollen nub, sending her over the edge for the second time that night.  
  
He continues to thrust, striving for release. She continues to whimper and moan, encouraging every thrust and soon with a grunt and a shudder, he follows her into oblivion.  
  
He remains inside her as they both struggle to find their breath. When he makes a move to roll off of her she grabs him, anchors him to her and whispers, "Not yet." They remain like that until they both fall off to sleep.  
  
The night is slowly giving way to the day. Though the moon still shines in the dusky sky, the darkness is quickly fading and soon the sun will rise. He has just finished buttoning the last of his buttons and, deciding against the jacket, he slings the wrinkled garment over his arm.  
  
He walks around to Sydney's side of the bed where she still sleeps. He leans over and shakes her gently, quietly whispering her name. She stirs, opens her eyes slowly and smiles. The smiles fades slowly, though he's not sure if it's because she realizes that it's him or perhaps because he is dressed and ready to leave. His ego demands the latter explanation to be the only plausible one.  
  
"I have to go," he says, softly.  
  
She nods, stifles a yawn and sits up. She wraps the sheet around her naked body, tucks her hair behind her ears as she allows her long legs to dangle over the edge. He wants to smile at how young she looks.  
  
She licks her lips and is suddenly self-conscious about her stale breath. "I didn't expect more than a note," she says – only half joking.  
  
He reaches under his jacket and produces a wrinkled piece of stationary paper from her desk. She smiles.  
  
"It seemed tacky," he says as he balls up the paper and throws it across the room, effortlessly landing in the wastebasket.  
  
She looks down at her feet, unable to make eye contact with him. Her eyes cast around the room nervously.  
  
He throws his jacket on the bed and bending his knees, he crouches down to meet her at eye level. His hands immediately reach for her own, which lay in her lap. She stares down at their hands and she's surprised when she sees herself intertwine their fingers. She finally finds the courage to look him in the eyes.  
  
"I can help you, if you let me," he says, seriously. He knows that it's not what she needs and not what she deserves but it's more than he's ever offered to anyone.  
  
He doesn't have to tell her. She knows his words are sincere. But she also knows that to accept his help would be to accept the consequences that would ultimately follow – and she's not ready for that. She shakes her head and he knows her answer before she even speaks.  
  
"I can't," she says, softly, as she looks back down at their hands. "I...I just can't."  
  
He can see the struggle within her. He is so very young but he has lived a lifetime. And he knows that there is good and bad in everyone – including her, including him. And he knows that the two of them are more alike than either would ever admit. But he also knows that the one thing that separates them, the one thing that makes them so very different is that no matter what lies within her – good or bad – no matter how hurt or betrayed she is, Sydney, will always choose the good. She will always choose the path of the righteous and noble and he, well, he won't.  
  
"They don't deserve you," he says, almost to himself but loud enough for her to hear.  
  
She smiles.  
  
"And I suppose you do?" She asks, an attempt to lighten the mood.  
  
He shakes his head, choosing to remain serious. "No, perhaps not," he says thoughtfully. He looks up at her from his crouching position, forcing her to look at him again. "But I would never hurt you the way they do."  
  
The small smile that had been on her face disappears and she feels a lump begin to form.  
  
She shakes her head. "Sark, I can't," she begins again but he nods and stands, dropping her hands back onto her lap.  
  
When he's at full height, she looks up at him, just in time for him to lean over and cup her cheek. "I know," he says and brushes his lips against hers. "I know."  
  
She reaches up and pulls his mouth back to hers with force and kisses him deeply. Both feel the fire begin to build again so he pulls away before it's too late. He has to walk away from this. Now.  
  
He places one last kiss on her forehead and she closes her eyes. He picks up his jacket and pulls out a small, white business card.  
  
"In case you change your mind," he tells her, as he places it on her nightstand.  
  
"Thank you," she whispers.  
  
She doesn't watch him walk away. Oddly enough, she doesn't want to. She looks down at her lap, fiddles with her fingers until she hears his voice again.  
  
"Oh and Sydney," he calls and she looks up to find him standing in the open doorway. "I hope I've at least earned myself a bit of a head start." His tone is teasing, playful even but, as with all their banter, holds a smidge of truth.  
  
She looks back down at her lap, over to the card on the nightstand and then finally back at him. She chews on her bottom lip, in deep thought, trying to torture him with her silence. But she looks up into his eyes and smiles. "You have 48 hours."  
  
And he smiles – a bright, genuine smile, unlike any she had ever seen from him before. It fades quickly into his infuriating smirk but she was grateful to have witnessed it at all.  
  
"Thank you, Agent Bristow," he says and shuts the door behind him.  
  
She grabs the card off the night table and lays back in bed as she twirls the card around in her hands and stares at the white card that holds only a series of anonyms numbers. Honestly, she wasn't sure if she would ever use it. She would like to think 'no,' but then again she never thought in a million years that it would be possible to already miss the way he smelled, or the husky timbre of his voice when he said her name.  
  
For a moment she was tempted to go out into the living room to see if he had taken the documents. But she didn't have to – she knew they would be gone and she wasn't ready to feel the brief sting of disappointment just yet.  
  
It didn't mean that last night had meant any less to him than it did her – it was just the world they live in. A place, where survival was critical and selfishness was necessary.  
  
He had taken something from her, but in turn, he had given her something much more valuable. He had given her a renewed strength and belief in her convictions and he had showed her that when you lose trust in the most safest of places, you can find it again, somewhere unexpected. Their trust only lasted a night but the experience they shared was enough to restore faith and trust in the most important place – within herself.  
  
He could keep the documents – she didn't need them anymore. Because he had traded them for something invaluable. And she would be forever grateful to him for that. 


End file.
